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The late 1980's were a time in my life I normally don't care to remember. My mother and I had moved away from my grandparents' house. Theirs was the only home I knew. Mother had a bad habit of making poor decisions in men, and so for a while we bounced around from place to place. I even recall being at one school only for a week before we were on the lam once again.

My bleary eyes struggled to open. Jesus. How long had I been sleeping for? I felt like i’d just awoken from a month long coma. God, my head hurt. The dull pounding in my temples was as rhythmic as the ticking clock on the wall. I couldn’t remember falling asleep, or what time it was, or even what day it was. The one thing I was sure of was how awful I was feeling and how much my parched throat ached for a drink. There was a bottle of water next to the sofa I had fallen asleep on. I took a sip…

You know it was weird. Things like this always are actually. So when people die, they leave wills, and distribute their material things amongst others. Sometimes, strangers do it too, and you're left with a confused feeling. Everyone has that friend or something, and you promise each other your things when you die. Or it's your roommate's stuff that they left behind when they have no family. Stuff like that.

Sitting in the back seat of a station wagon, two sisters, ages 6 and 8 start bickering. One won't scoot over, the other is making annoying sounds. Typical car ride for this family. The parents up front try ignoring the children, but soon enough it gets to be too intolerable. "Girls, be quiet and look out your windows." Snapped their mom.

An average Saturday, the clear skies of the day fade into the abyss that is night. On many occasions this wouldn't be a problem at all, but tonight, you feel scared. Frantically looking in car windows as you walk for something you know isn't there, any sound cursed at your ear. You want to go home. As you walk down the sidewalk on the way to your house, the creepy vibe you feel grows, as does your fear. You look to a parking lot to see what looks like chalk, but only one word. It reads…

Hear me out. I don't plan to stay here long. One way or another, this place won't hold me. Yeah, sure - I know 'they all' say that. But trust me - I'm different. No, that's not right - I'm probably bog-standard, but the circumstances are different. And the circumstances are going to make things a little difficult. Unless I tell someone - even if I tell someone.

Ever seen dead bugs on a windowsill? Of course you have, it’s quite common, especially in the countryside. A still ladybug, a pile of flies, or maybe a spider curled up in a ball, it doesn’t matter. You can see them anywhere. You knew that. But here’s something you didn’t know: whenever you see dead insects or arachnids of any kind on the window sill, it’s a sign. It means you will have many restless nights, full of nightmares. It may not happen immediately, it may even takes months or years…

A Lucid Dream is when the dreamer knows that he or she is dreaming at the moment. This powerful knowledge can make the dream seem more fun, with the dreamer being able to control everything. Meanwhile, an Out of Body Experience is when the dreamer is not dreaming, but they sometimes believe that they are currently in a dream. However, what happens when a dreamer believes that he is in a dream but realizes that he cannot control it? That my friends is called a Lucid Mystery. Story

The slight dripping sounds from the kitchen abruptly ended my post vacation buzz as soon as I opened the front door. Knots that I had hoped were lost somewhere on a Hawaiian beach returned to their home in the small of my back as I began the process of doing mental math. The last plumbing mishap relieved me of a month's pay and half of my comic collection. Judging by the competing tones of multiple drips, I told myself this was going to be an expensive plumbing emergency.

She was beautiful. She had a great face, great body, and her hair, goodness gracious, her hair! It was so silky, long, and so absolutely perfect. The entire school knew this. She knew it. Her younger sister did, too.

What is going on?

They are going to kill you. You just know they are. You sit here, in the back area of the white van. It's devoid of anything, except the chair you sit in, and a white, metal floor with a screwdriver laying lazily near the wall. A fluorescent bulb hangs on the ceiling nearby, casting an erie white glow around the place. There are no windows, and everything not illuminated by the bulb is pitch black. You can't move anything.

It started about a year and a half ago. I was on the internet reading about Libya, Gaddafi and the Arab Spring when I felt a sensation on the back of the neck. At first it was just a slight itch but it progressively became more and more intense. It felt as if a little itty bitty ant was crawling up and down the back of my neck. The only way to stop it was to slap the back of my neck. Sometimes it felt like it was burrowing into my skin. Once it burrowed in, I had to itch it away or else it…

To whoever receives this letter, these are the final words of me, Cynthia J. Hill. They will sound like the ramblings of a mad woman, but I swear I am and have been of sound mind. It happened something like this:

Testimonial & Description: “I hate to close my eyes. I hate sleeping, and I even hate to blink. The split second that each blink occupies is still long enough to see it. I can still see that shadowed face attached to that sickly body as it motioned for me to close my eyes”. – Written by Anonymous, 2005 Description:

We were told to stay clear of the well. Most of the time, we did. No one knew why, and no one cared. Down Innsmote Road, the long abandoned row of crumbling houses on the way to school, it lay beneath the shade of a droopy branched willow, in front of the old Leibowitz house. The house itself had fallen down years ago. The expansive section was now consumed in thick weeds and wild flowers, but we seldom played there. We didn't like being amongst the derelict homes and the decaying foundations,…

You are lying in your bed, the dull whirring of your air conditioner is the only thing separating you from total silence. You know, that particular silence that is so heavy, and so thick, it’s almost the equivalent of a loud noise itself? The kind of silence where you could hear a pin drop three rooms away in; the kind of silence that fills your ears with the sound of your own heartbeat as your ear presses against your pillow. That kind of silence.

I was glad to be moving. I never liked my city. It was too loud for me anyways.

The bell on the door chimed softly as Joe entered the small flower shop. Sandra was pissed at him for working late again; she'd made that much clear when he'd rolled in past ten last night. Who is she, Joe? Who is who? The woman you're screwing. What are you talking about, Sandy? You know I have the Brinkman proposal to finish by next week. It's requiring more time and effort than Bob anticipated when he signed us up for the damn thing.

The weekend was the time when somebody like me, a 12-year-old boy, didn’t have much to do apart from playing alone in the house. My mother kept an eye on me at all times, and I can’t really blame her, after all, I think I broke every single window in this house at least twice. That’s why I’m not allowed to play football indoors anymore.